


Just Breathe With Me For Now

by dilapidatedcorvid



Series: Glass: A 1920's Bootlegger AU [2]
Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Knifeplay, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, One Night Stands, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 08:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26968918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilapidatedcorvid/pseuds/dilapidatedcorvid
Summary: In the orange light of the bulb swaying overhead, the shadows cast softly against Camilla’s angular face, a perfect study of shadows in the contours of her cheekbones. Her expression is unreadable. “Ms. Tridentarius,” she says. Her voice is smooth and clear, steady in a way that makes Corona’s knees feel paradoxically weak.Corona makes a point to lift her drink to her lips, swilling cognac in her glass and taking a long sip. “Corona to all my friends, please.”
Relationships: Camilla Hect/Coronabeth Tridentarius
Series: Glass: A 1920's Bootlegger AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968022
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	Just Breathe With Me For Now

Atlantic City is known for three things: its ocean boardwalk, its beauty pageants, and the parties at Ida. The last one is a bit of a cheater’s answer; the parties are always held right by the boardwalk and any chance to lay one’s eyes on one of the Tridentarius twins would render any pageant utterly ineffective for the next five years.

This, of course, is exactly the reason Coronabeth Tridentarius rarely attends her own parties. She’s fashionably elusive, one might say, and if there is anything Corona knows, it’s how to command the limited attention of her tragic peers.

Between meeting with the businessmen and racketeers who work their little schemes in her city, overseeing the steady flow of illicit goods on the party floor, and reminding her men to take a discrete photo of the mayor’s wife—drunk beyond belief, if her lauding the twice watered-down whiskey is anything to go by—for future blackmailing purposes, there is simply so little time to relax.

Experience has taught her that dwindling supply in the face of constant demand increases value, and her time is nothing if not valuable. So, no, while her lackeys—bless their hearts—oversee the raucous parties at Ida and corral the men eager to prostrate themselves to anyone who might look even a smidgen like the Tridentarii heirs and kiss her cheeks twice on each side, Coronabeth is here, on the other side of town, slipping into a speakeasy too small and too dingy for most. It’s perfect.

The Mithraeum is a small basement establishment—if you could even call it that—surrounded by ramshackle buildings and absolutely nothing of import. Corona breezes by the bouncer—a tan and uncomfortably muscular man with a face twice as gaunt as that of the Reverend Daughter’s—who lets her in with a quiet grunt, pushing the door open with the toe of his shoe. She blows him a kiss and a wink he responds to with a curt nod as she steps inside.

The interior is horribly dreary and drab. The bar is chipped and stained, years of spilt alcohol building up an uneven sticky, sweet-smelling lacquer finish that brings out the grain of the wood. The dim lighting from weakly flickering bulbs filters through the haze of cigarette smoke that hangs from the ceiling and dances over the severe angles and haggard faces of the patrons speaking lowly to one another. If this was Ida, well, Corona would never have let Ida fall into this state of disrepair. But for her purposes tonight, a shabby, seedy kind of place suits her needs just fine.

She waltzes up to the bar, the clicking of her beaded dress announcing her arrival. 

The bartender doesn’t look up, polishing a whiskey glass with a towel. “What can I do for you, chick?” 

“Sidecar, please,” she says and slides two dollar bills across the tacky bar surface.

The bartender glances, double-takes, then stares wide-eyed at the cash and looks up at her. The same awe it seems everyone has in their eye when they recognise a Tridentarius mixes with the horror of his casual address. She’s long learned to ignore the plain-faced wonder. The fear, though... That, she likes.

He schools his face into a kindly smile despite looking like he has thoroughly soiled himself, and nods politely. “Right up, ma’am.”

Leaning against the bar, she lets her eyes drift across the room, searching for someone interesting to entertain her tonight. The patrons are of the regular fare that pass through this sort of place: dock workers finding something to warm their fingers after an evening working in the chilly Atlantic autumn winds blowing in from the ocean, rum runners taking a night off, the every-day man swirling a little bit of alcohol in a glass before he returns home from work—all people a Tridentarius would never be caught dead fraternizing with.

And then her eyes snag on a figure sitting at the back table alone. They’re silhouetted by the lamp hanging over the table, back turned to the bar. Even shrouded in shadow, Corona knows exactly who they are.

She holds out her hand and a glass slides into the curve of her palm. She lifts it to her lips for a small sip and begins to cross the speakeasy, hips swaying gently to the song the saxophone player is crooning out of his instrument. Her eyes fix on the back of her target’s head, a huntress stalking her prey.

The figure either doesn’t notice her approach, or more likely—if Corona’s knowledge of their disposition is correct—decided not to show it. Corona tries to remember if they’ve had previous rendezvous in the shadows or late-night escapades she can’t recall, if they’ve locked eyes while crossing the street. No, certainly not. She’d remember if they did. She’s always hoped they might run into each other like this. No matter. A new night is a new opportunity for memories and Corona never drinks enough to forget an evening.

At the sound of glassware coming down heavy on old wood, her target looks up. Slow and controlled. not startled. Like they were expecting it. Corona slides gracefully into the opposing chair and rests her chin in her palm, a sly smile gracing her lips.

“Camilla Hect,” she purrs. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.”

In the orange light of the bulb swaying overhead, the shadows cast softly against Camilla’s angular face, a perfect study of shadows in the contours of her cheekbones. Her expression is unreadable. “Ms. Tridentarius,” she says. Her voice is smooth and clear, steady in a way that makes Corona’s knees feel paradoxically weak.

Corona makes a point to lift her drink to her lips, swilling cognac in her glass and taking a long sip. “Corona to all my friends, please,” she says, setting the glass back down, and makes a show of raking her eyes over Camilla’s body.

Camilla’s dress shirt sleeves are rolled up past her elbows and expose strong, scarred, muscled forearms and veined hands, one pressed against the smooth, dark wood of the table, the other hand curled gently and pressed against her lips. Corona traces the outline of her elbows, up to her shoulder, along the sturdy line of her throat, and settles her eyes on the bow of Camilla’s upper lip, the strong profile of her nose, the deep, deep brown of her eyes made warm and rich in this light. There’s a pale line across the bridge of her nose, a scar Corona hadn’t ever taken stock of before. 

Camilla is _arrestingly_ handsome.

“Would you like to be my friend, Camilla?”

It’s indulgent, she knows. Camilla is resolute, stubborn, and steadfast to the Cohort syndicate, and among their best too. Pity, she would have been so fine working in golds and purples. Much better compensated for her labour too, if the state of the jacket hanging off the back of the chair, sleeves worn and cuffs frayed, is anything to go by. In fact, why she’s here at all is a mystery to Corona, but she’s not one to turn down a serendipitous meeting.

So, it comes as utter shock she struggles to keep off her face when Camilla tilts her head. No scathing remark, no pointed rejection. The light through the slats of the window paint deep gold lines across her face, dancing along the razor edge of her jaw, the knife’s blade of her cheekbone. If Corona didn’t know better, she might say that the corner of her lips lifted ever so slightly into a smirk. “And what will your friendship cost me, _Corona?_ ”

Corona sits up, certain her delight is evident on her face. She licks her lips in thought, worrying the lower one between her teeth. There’s so much she wants from this woman. “Your time,” she says after a moment of musing. She twists her finger loosely in a lock of golden hair and grins, vixen-like. “Your time, your energy, your attention.” And then for added effect, “I’ll make it worth your efforts.”

Camilla looks down at glass, running her finger along the curve of its lip. In the background, the saxophonist finishes his song and starts a new one, this one slower, like honey stirred in hot tea. Camilla lifts her eyes to meet Corona’s, and Corona feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand at the careful, searching attention of her gaze. She recognises the look in Camilla’s eyes: a slow, open, roiling hunger eclipsed only by the desire for a game. A chase. Unsurprising; she’s a smart girl.

Not smart enough, though, to know Corona has never been anything other than the predator.

Camilla clears her throat and speaks, careful and measured. “I consider my services a luxury. I’m afraid even _friends_ aren’t exempt.”

Corona tilts her head in acknowledgement. “Of course. Do you smoke, Camilla?” At the subtle shake of Camilla’s head, Corona shrugs and reaches into her purse. The flint lighter sparks in front of the cigarette and Corona takes a long drag, drumming her fingers on the wood of the table. She exhales, letting the grey smoke curl around her upper lip. “You know who I am, yes?”

Camilla nods.

“Of course, you do,” Corona says at the same time, waving the question away. As if Camilla’s answer couldn’t have been anything else. “You are the Cohort’s finest, and as impressive as the tales I’ve heard of your physical prowess—and believe me, you look the part—I’m sure you hold your station for more than just your strength.”

The sombre line of Camilla’s lips set harder ever so slightly, the motion near invisible in the subdued light of the Mithraeum, something that could be read for irritation if one wasn’t paying attention. But Corona was paying attention. Maybe it meant nothing, but Corona can’t help the slight smile at the thought that perhaps she could phase even the great, stoic Camilla Hect.

“Then you’ll know that I am heir to one of the largest crime families on this side of the continent. And you’ll know that I treat my employees _very_ well.” She raises her cigarette to her lips, locking eyes as she takes a long, slow pull. She watches Camilla’s throat bob beyond the faintly glowing end of her smoke, watches her tip her face down to hide her eyes behind that dark fringe of hers.

“And I’m not soliciting you to be my employee, Camilla. You’re loyal as a dog to the Cohort. Why, I’ll never understand; I hope they know how damn lucky they are to have you. But, this isn’t about your allegiances. I’m soliciting you to be my friend for the evening, and I’d treat you even better than my men. Or…” Corona watches the smoke wisping from the cigarette dangling between her fingers and shrugs, a smile playing at her lips. “Or you could share my bed with me and I’ll show you what Tridentarius hospitality looks like.”

Camilla takes her glass, looks into it silently for a minute, and smoothly drains the rest. Corona takes her time shamelessly admiring the flex of her forearms, the way her throat works, the clavicle that shows from behind the undone top button. Camilla sets the glass down, licks her lips, and in the dim light of the speakeasy, her eyes are dark with desire. “My friends call me Cam.”

A smile spreads slowly, wide across Corona’s lips, and she stubs out her half-finished cigarette, holding out a hand. “I know a place. Shall we?”

Cam stands and takes the proffered hand, bringing Corona to her feet. Corona smiles, sly, and leans over to brush a kiss to Cam’s cheek. 

“Follow me.”

They breach into the crisp, cold night air and onto the street, and Corona breathes in deep. The chill pricks into the back of her throat and her lungs, bright and brilliant, a world away from the smoke and shadow at the Mithraeum. They move silently through the streets, fingertips brushing and Corona turns to watch the profile of Cam’s face. Under the passing lights, a dozen shadows flit across her face, shadowing her eyes, gliding along the slope of her nose, brushing against the strong-set ramus of her mandible. 

Enchanting and enigmatic, her eyes betray nothing, sliding under the soft golden glow of street lamps from chestnut to the unfathomable depths of dark brown Corona loses herself in—a repository of knowledge Corona could only hope to scrape the surface of. 

She wants nothing more than to dig her claws into her ribs and open her like a book to read the secrets of Camilla Hect tattooed onto her heart and lungs.

Amber lamp-lit cobblestone paths turn to wooden stairs turn to soft rug and hardwood floor and she feels Cam’s hand press against the small of her back. It’s no surprise, then, that when they arrive on the landing, Cam turns her into the wall and presses her torso up against her spine, mouthing at the soft, golden baby hairs on the back of her neck.

Corona presses her cheek into the wall and doesn’t bother to hide the sharp intake of breath at the sensation of teeth on her skin. Foreign hands press up against her sides over fabric, palms running along the curve of her ribcage and the skin under her touch is painted red with warmth. She pushes her hips back into Cam’s and the breathy sigh she’s rewarded with fogs up her mind more than any alcohol ever could. What she wouldn’t give to taste that same sigh on her lips, to know what it is like to kiss Camilla Hect.

More. She wants more. She reaches behind her in search of fabric, of skin, of Cam. Instead, and much to her delighted surprise, a hand snatches her wrist out of the air and pins it up beside her head.

“Let me make a good impression,” Cam husks, and Corona feels a shiver go down her spine at the words. A hand presses down the length of her stomach and curves away to grasp inelegantly at her hip. Cam’s lips grace the space behind the shell of Corona’s ear with a kiss and Corona moans.

“I have a perfectly good bed,” Corona says with a smile she doesn’t bother to conceal, breathless, delighting in the way Cam’s fingertips dig into the softness below the crest of her hip.

“Don’t want to make like the dockhands?” Cam asks, but she lets go.

A glance over the shoulder tells Corona it was said in jest and her stomach twists at the sight of the self-satisfied smirk on Cam’s lips. “What good is wealth without using it?” she asks, walking to the door on unsteady knees and placing her hand on the heavy doorknob.

“Is that what it’s like to live when you’re at the top?”

“If you ask nicely, I’ll let _you_ get on top.” Corona grins and pushes the door open. She kicks her shoes off and crosses the floor to stand at the edge of the bed, running her fingers over snow-white sheets. And then Cam is stepping over the threshold behind her and Corona turns to frame her lovely jaw in her hands and kisses Camilla Hect full on the lips.

Cam tastes like whiskey and she tastes like cognac and together they taste like want and liquid desire. Their teeth clack together, hips fitting together like lock and key, and Corona’s hands untuck Cam’s shirt from her pants. The leather of her belt is warm to the touch from a day worn and Corona slides her fingers into the band and tugs her closer.

Roughened hands dance along the back of Corona’s dress and when Cam finds no zipper or tie to speak of, her fingers sweep into blonde hair instead, tangling into long locks and tugging, her mouth firm and incessant against Corona’s.

Corona tips her head into the touch and Cam’s smart mouth fixes itself to the long column of her neck immediately. The press of teeth against the delicate skin there is hot and sharp and Corona blindly undoes the buttons of Cam’s shirt. The moment she can reach bare skin, Corona splays her fingers over Cam’s stomach, groaning.

“Dress,” Cam says, voice thick and raspy, and Corona obliges her, lifting her arms high above her arms so they can pull the beaded fabric over her head. Tossing the dress to the side, Cam surges forward again, a bruising kiss that has Corona gasping. And then Cam is turning her around with a hand on her hip to face away and kneel on the mattress and pressing the pads of her fingers along her bared midriff. “You’re so beautiful.”

Corona groans, leaning back into Cam’s warmth against her back. Her hands reach for Cam’s trouser-clad thighs and Cam makes a soft shushing sound.

“Patience, Tridentarius.” Her bra comes loose and Corona frees her arms from it as Cam makes quick work of her garters and underwear. Lips find purchase on Corona’s neck and she groans low in her throat. “Just be patient.”

Something at the back of Corona’s mind demands that Cam strip too, that it’s unfair she’s naked when Cam still has so many clothes on. And then Cam’s roughened palm is pressed against the smooth skin of her inner thigh and Corona stops thinking for the moment.

Long fingers dance along the curves of her leg, the crease of her hip, all teasing. Cam’s hips press up against the swell of Corona’s ass and grind slowly, her lips parted by Corona’s ear. Her breaths come out short and hot, an aphrodisiac in Corona’s ear.

Corona can feel the belt digging into her skin, the roughness of Cam’s palm gliding up to press against her sternum, the tips of her fingers tracing the hollow of her throat. Cam is a goddamn tease and Corona’s cheeks turn red, her body utterly betraying her.

“Can I touch you?” Cam asks, trailing her fingers higher up Corona’s thigh.

Corona’s hips twitch. There was never a doubt in her mind. “Even if I said no, could you even resist?” she teases.

Cam’s hand stills on her skin. “If you say no, I stop.” There’s unexpected gravity in her voice and it feels as if something sharp has run its way through Corona’s chest.

There’s an unexpected swell of emotion Corona feels, and she pushes it away for later examination. There are more important things at hand. “You’re still grinding on my ass.”

Cam chuckles, a little breathy huff of a laugh. “You haven’t told me to stop.”

The feeling of Cam’s breath against sensitive skin sends chills down Corona’s spine. She grasps at the hand on her thigh, bringing it up by the wrist to press against her cunt as permission. She’s already wet, if the groan from behind her is anything to go by. Good. She’s waited enough.

Cam thumbs at her clit slowly, drawing lazy circles. Her lips trace the line of Corona’s shoulder, distracted by the palm cupping one of Corona’s full breasts and kneading. Corona tries to bear down on her hand and Cam holds her up by the strength of her arm across her chest alone, keeping the heel of her palm just out of reach.

“Cam,” Corona whines. Fingers press up against her entrance, utterly ending any thought she might have had. Teeth close around the skin of her shoulder and she cries out. 

Cam growls, pressing her tongue to soothe reddened skin. “I said, patience.” 

Under Corona’s palm, Cam’s thigh flexes, and Corona digs her fingers deeper into the fabric of her trousers. She bites her lip to stifle another plea, soft pink going white under her teeth. What sound that does escape comes out as a strangled sound of dismay. And then teasing fingers press inside and no bite is enough to contain the long, low moan that escapes.

Cam fucks her the way Corona has always dreamed she might: disciplined and deliberate, every stroke discovery and dismantling. Her long fingers crook and Corona shudders; the heel of her palm grinds against Corona’s clit and Corona shouts. Corona’s hand fists into dark hair, Cam sucks dark marks into beautiful bronze skin, and Corona rolls her hips in time with Cam’s fingers.

She’s vaguely aware of just how vulgar this must look, her every spasm and jerk of her hips put on full display. Cam’s fingers bury themselves inside her again, clinical and unerring. Corona feels a tingling start at her toes that spreads slowly up her calves and she sobs, riding Cam’s fingers for all she’s worth, shameless.

“Don’t stop,” she pants with ragged voice. Cam’s knee knocks Corona’s wider, sinks her fingers in deeper, and Corona’s thighs give out with a shout.

Her orgasm tides over like waves breaking against a great bluff, powerful and messy, and it is only by the hand Cam splays across her ribs that she stays upright. Corona leans against Cam’s shoulder, panting through chapped lips. When Cam crooks her fingers again, she makes a low and guttural noise.

“Can you go again?”

Corona has barely nodded twice before Cam pulls her fingers out and pushes her to gently fall onto the mattress. Twisting, Corona turns onto her back to see Cam crawl up onto the bed after her. Her shirt is open, her lips ever-so-slightly swollen with kisses, and Corona fists her hands in the shirt collar to pull Cam down for a searing hot kiss.

Together, they pull Cam’s arms out of her sleeves and free her breasts from their bindings. Corona wastes no time, pressing kisses to the top of them and then taking a nipple into her mouth. They pebble under her touch. Cam hisses above her, fumbling with her belt before giving up, distracted by Corona’s teeth on her nipple.

“Lie down,” Cam rasps, and Corona lets go of her breasts with only a little disappointment. There’s a hickey starting to form and Corona allows herself a moment to imagine Cam’s chest covered in blooming bruises. She’d look good in purple.

Cam pushes Corona’s legs further apart and spreads her cunt between her thumbs. Her expression is that of appreciation writ plain on her face, and she leans down just enough to brush a kiss to the skin above Corona’s clit.

Two fingers spear in and Corona’s back arches, fingers clawing into the sheets.

“Touch your clit.” Cam bites into the softness of Corona’s stomach, the curve under her breast, and finally fixes her mouth on the meat of it, sucking messily.

It’s not instruction Corona will refuse and she touches herself, wet and sloppy. The sounds of them, skin on wet skin, ragged breaths, Cam’s mouth on her breast, fill the room and Corona lifts her lips to meet the thrusts.

Cam fucks her harder like this, getting her whole arm into every push, and Corona twists in the sheets, pressing her face to the cool fabric when she gets close, a desperate attempt to wrangle control back into her hands.

Cam takes Corona’s nipple into her mouth and tongues wetly, grasping at Corona’s hand between them. She brings it further down, lining their wrists up. “Fuck yourself with me.”

Even if Corona wanted to deny her, she could never. Not when Cam takes over rubbing her clit with her free hand, not when she’s marking up her sternum again, not when Cam’s palm is wet when their hands nestle and push three fingers inside.

The stretch alone is intense, and when Corona cranes her neck for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, when the motion changes the angle, when Corona’s free hand rakes down Cam’s back in response, her ankles hook around Cam’s back, pulling them closer. Together, their fingers curl and Corona sinks her teeth into Cam’s shoulder as she comes again, her shameless sobs infused into dark skin, blood roaring in her ears.

“Again?” Cam asks and Corona cries out when she moves their fingers, relinquishing Cam’s bruised shoulder from between her teeth. There’s a beautiful ring of bite marks along the dark skin, shiny with spit, and Corona shudders at the sight.

And gods, she dreams of being able to go a third round without a break, of having the endurance to stand up to Cam’s ruthless onslaught, the relentless energy with which she takes Corona apart piece by piece. But this time, she’s too sensitive, her cunt already sore, the faintest of pins and needles in her leg from the angle. She shakes her head.

Something vaguely like disappointment flickers across Cam’s face, and then it’s replaced by a kiss she lays on Corona’s temple. “Next time,” she says, and Corona clenches down around her fingers reflexively. Cam laughs, a low, rumbling sound, and eases their fingers free. She wipes them dry on white bedsheets and kisses Corona’s inner thigh—something that makes Corona gasp and her hips twist—and loosens her belt, pulling her trousers and underwear off her legs.

Cam is made of hard-earned muscle padded with softness and Corona pushes herself up to sitting to appreciate fully. There’s a thin, dark line of hair stretching down her lower stomach. Corona reaches out to brush her fingers over it, coarse under her fingers, a map that guides her fingers down, down, down.

Cam hums, a smile tugging on her lips. She cups the back of Corona’s head and brings her to the muscled planes of her stomach, pressing nose to navel. Corona groans at the pressure of Cam’s palm on her scalp and presses a kiss to warm skin. “You can touch,” she says, and Corona touches.

She touches, she kisses, she laves her tongue over the ridges of muscle that frame Cam’s stomach. Her hands wrap around the backs of Cam’s thighs and she gently tips them both back into the sheets.

Cam hums, sounding pleased. Rearranging herself, she brackets her thighs over Corona’s sides and grinds her hips onto her stomach. It leaves a smear of wetness Corona’s chest fills with pride at. If Cam notices, she doesn’t say anything, just drags her clit against Corona’s stomach in slow circles while Corona tips her head up to lavish attention to her breasts.

Corona sucks hickies into the undersides of Cam’s breasts, sinking her teeth into the muscle around her ribs. Her hands urge Cam’s hips up and her kisses trail down her stomach, over coarse hairs and finally, when Cam’s thighs press on either side of her head, against damp folds.

Cam hisses, tilting her hips against Corona’s mouth. When she speaks, her voice is thick with desire. “Corona…”

Corona feels goosebumps on her forearms at the sound of her name, but Cam has teased her far too long to not be repaid in kind. She presses her thumbs into the creases of Cam’s hips and turns to kiss the inside of Cam’s thigh, grinning against the twitching muscle. Her teeth close around tender skin and Cam snarls.

“You could say please,” Corona says. Her grin is all teeth.

Cam fists her hand in Corona’s hair and tugs, pushing her hips forward. Corona’s eyes roll back in delight. “I don’t _beg._ ”

Corona shrugs as best she can. “Not my problem.” She kisses the junction of Cam’s thigh and hip where the skin creases and she can feel the heat of Cam’s desire against her cheek. Cam’s thigh twitches and Corona carefully bites down.

“Jesus—Corona, don’t tease.” Cam tugs harder and Corona’s eyelids flutter at the pressure. 

It’s as close to any sort of admission Corona’s going to get. The Tridentarii didn’t make it in the world without knowing when to quit bargaining and pull the trigger. She turns and licks a stripe up. Cam makes a noise above her, the sound of a lone gunshot in a still and quiet evening, and Corona presses her thighs together, sticky and warm. She tongues at Cam’s clit, relinquishing control when Cam starts to roll her hips and grind into her mouth.

It’s dangerous to play too much with a caged tiger.

Cam’s hips jerk and Corona wonders if she could break her nose against bone. She wouldn’t care—she has Cam’s taste heavy on her tongue and the smell of her in her nostrils and the feel of her thighs, trembling beside her head, under her fingertips. She can hear the sound of Cam’s voice, strangled in the struggle to stay silent, as her hips stutter out of rhythm.

If Cam soaks her chin when she comes, Corona doesn’t mention it.

Cam shuffles back to sit on Corona’s stomach and Corona pushes herself up to kiss her, lips sticky and wet. Cam doesn’t protest, returning with a softer, slower kiss than she had afforded before. Now, Cam’s expression is less severe, the crease in her brow softened. Their kiss is languid. Luxurious. If this is Cam after one orgasm, Corona wants to see her after three.

“Can you go again?” Corona teases, and Cam bites down on her lower lip in return.

* * *

When Corona comes to, it’s to the sound of rustling fabric. She throws an arm over her eyes to block out the morning sun filtering through her windows and feels the sheets slip under her breasts. She stretches over her head and lets herself sigh dramatically, eyes still closed.

As she had hoped, the rustling stops.

Corona smiles and opens her eyes. Cam stands near the side of the bed, trousers pulled halfway up her thighs. Cam turns to look at her and her dark eyes soften.

“Sorry to wake you,” Cam says. Her voice is scratchy from an evening of sleep and she politely averts her eyes from the swell of Corona’s bared breasts.

It’s the opposite of what Corona wants. She wants Cam’s attention, the heat of her gaze settling hot and heady on her skin. “Cam,” she purrs. She twists in the sheets again, drawing out the long lines of her body along the length of the bed, the languid stretch of a tiger, eyes half-lidded. The sheets pool around her hips and Corona rolls onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “Can I convince you to stay?”

Cam’s eyes rake over her torso, settling at the hollow of her throat, at the strong valley of her sternum, and the dip of her hips. Corona preens under the attention. And then dark eyes flicker away and Corona feels the loss like frosted grass misses the sun.

“I’m sorry,” Cam says, tugging her trousers up and threading her belt back through the loops. “I have people counting on me.”

Corona pouts, reaching out her fingers to brush along Cam’s forearm. Corded muscle flex under her touch and Corona sighs breathily. Cam’s hands still. “You are such a fine specimen.” She takes Cam’s hand in her own and inches closer, lifting the tips of long fingers to her lips to kiss.

At the touch, Cam makes a soft noise and smooths her thumb over Corona’s lip. “I must go.”

Leaving no room for mistaking the reluctance in her sigh, Corona lets go and allows Cam to pull her shirt on and button it up from navel to neck. It is a crisp, clean, well-starched shirt and it fits over Cam’s compact frame sinfully well. Corona watches her fold the sleeves up just above the elbows and notes the careful, conservative movements of calloused fingertips.

“If you will not stay, will you humour me an embrace and a kiss?” Corona asks, running her hand through her mass of thick, golden hair. She attempts once more to coax Cam back to bed, her hand slipping under the pillow with the effort of leaning back and pushing her breasts out on display.

Cam smiles, almost coyly, and crawls back onto the bed. A hand cups Corona’s cheek and she pulls her in for a slow and easy kiss.

Corona grins against Cam’s lips, the hand from her hair wrapping around her shoulders to pull Cam down until she gives and allows herself to fall to her elbows.

“Seductress,” Cam breathes, and fits their mouths together again, indulging.

Corona hums, pressing her tongue against the seam of Cam’s lips, and Cam makes a most delightful sound from the base of her throat.

And then from those same lips come the most beautiful, broken noise, a horrible, wet and wretched gasp.

Corona doesn’t know when she grasped the handle of the dagger from under the pillow, has no recollection of why she pressed the point between Cam’s ribs, or when hot blood began to coat her hand like champagne from an overfilled flute. But here she lays, hand fisted around the handle of the knife in Cam’s chest, the shirt, the sheets, and the naked skin of her side quickly turning a bright crimson.

“Coronabeth,” Cam says, her voice cracking.

It’s a gorgeous, whispered thing, and Corona does the only thing she can think to do. She wrenches out the knife and, at Camilla’s anguished cry, drives it down into soft flesh once more.

Camilla grunts and her elbows give out. She collapses onto Corona’s torso, the fight gone from her limbs. Blood stains the cotton fabric of her shirt, dyeing it like spilt wine. Her breathing is ragged and wet and her fingers wrap around Corona’s forearm and shoulder weakly.

It’s a grip without strength. Corona twists the blade out again, ignoring Camilla’s wince. Her palm is wet and warm with blood, the knife slipping in her hold. She presses the blade against the side of Camilla’s breast and, sinks it flush to the hilt one last time.

Camilla coughs wetly and Corona feels something wet splatter across her shoulder and neck. Distantly, Corona realises that Camilla’s shirt is damp and she pulls back to discover that she is crying. Tears run hotly down her cheeks. When she breathes, it’s congested and shaking with sobs.

“You’re so good to me, Hect,” she says softly, letting go of the knife. Her bloodied hand turns Camilla’s eyes to face hers. It smears a broad line of red along her jaw. “No one will ever be like you again. No one.”

Camilla’s eyes are heavy with resignation, her jaw slack with surprise. She makes to say something, but then she stills, the only sounds in the room the soft gurgling wheeze of her laboured breaths and Corona’s red-gloved hand petting her hair.

“No one will ever be like you, Camilla,” Corona whispers, and presses a kiss to blood-flecked lips. “No one else can have you.”

Camilla’s hand, trembling, comes up to cup her jaw. Her fingers are kissed red and leave dots smudged against Corona’s cheek when she tries to wipe away tears. Oh, sweet, sweet, loyal Camilla. She was always so good, too good, and Corona was always too good at getting what she wanted and never good enough at sharing.

Corona strokes soft, dark hair until Camilla’s eyes dull and her death rattle brushes kiss-swollen lips, and she gently rolls the corpse off her body. The white sheets have stained scarlet around her and she takes the thin, soaked covers with her as she stands. She wraps the linens around her naked torso, skin sticky with blood and the evidence of last night’s lust, and leaves the body, blade still embedded in its chest, to continue to exsanguinate on the white bedspread.

On her feet, she pads towards the mirror standing against her wall. Her reflection is a spectre of death wrapped in a cowhide of alabaster and carmine, her chest and arms drenched in blood. There are flecks of it in her hair and on her face too, evidence of Camilla Hect’s dying breaths.

_Devastating._

Corona takes one painted hand and smears four lines of crimson across her cheek and over her lips, down her chin. Her tongue flickers out and tastes the tips of her fingers, washing them clean of evidence.

_Delicious._

She lets go of her toga of Ides and allows the ruined fabric float to the ground and pool by her feet. Before her, the reflection is a goddess of bronzed skin and luscious gold tresses. Blood slowly drips, rolling in beads like a dress down the planes of her stomach, tracing the crests of her hips and painting downward spirals around her thighs—thin rivulets of sanguine champagne, sweet on the tongue, warm against the throat.

_Divine._

She reaches out with kiss-cleaned fingers, smiles at her reflection with blood-smeared canines, and touches the glass.

* * *

Corona shoots up in bed, gasping, sheets falling to her waist. It’s dark. She turns, heart racing, to look beside her. The bed is empty, the sheets as white as when she fell asleep. She looks at her clean hands and shoves them under her pillows. There is no knife.

Sighing in relief, Corona falls back onto the bed, her hair splaying out in a golden halo around her. Her chest heaves for breath and she looks up at the canopy of her bed, willing the tension out of her muscles. She stretches her arms out, sinking into the softness of the mattress. There is sweat along the back of her neck and dotting her hairline and it cools in the soft breeze that blows through on this humid autumn night.

Just a dream.

She stretches out, pushing her legs together and pointing her toes as far from the crown of her head as she can. Just a dream, but the ache in her cunt is real. Wetness paints down the inside of her thighs, sticky and inviting, and Corona pushes her hand under the sheets to touch herself. She’s warm and slick against her fingertips, and she sighs softly.

Camilla Hect is Cohort and Coronabeth will always be Tridentarii, but the fantasy makes her toes curl and she bites into her lower lip until she draws blood—the iron a familiar taste—between her teeth.

The soft orange glow of street lamps dapples the floorboards as she palms her breast and slides two fingers inside herself. She moans, bites her lip, cants her hips skyward.

She may not be able to have Camilla Hect in real life, but she can have her in her dreams.

It’s almost good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help it. I'm predictable like this. Many thanks to [@maybem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybem) for dropping the idea of using a dream to get around the continuity issues I had trying to write this self-indulgent smutic as an add on to a fic where Corona really doesn't show up except to die, you're brilliant. And as always, to [@searchforthescars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchforthescars) for being my eyes and my braincell during editing. I remain amazed that you continue to want to beta my works and my gratitude is infintesimal and endless. Thank you, once again.  
> And, yes, I _am_ feeling rather smug about the knifeplay tag, do not @ me.
> 
> Liked it enough to get to the end notes? Drop me a kudos and maybe a comment if you're feeling saucy and so inclined!
> 
> Title from “Glass (Redux)” by Common Deer.
> 
> Tumblr: [frumpkinspocketdimension](https://frumpkinspocketdimension.tumblr.com)  
> Discord: SweetBabyRae#0967


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